“Whoever made it, send her to me at once,” demanded the count. The housekeeper was very much concerned. She hurried away to the kitchen. “What is to be done now?” she said to Matilda. “The count demands to see you, but the sight of your rags and dark face would surely throw him into a fever. This is a pretty piece of work!” “Do not be troubled,” said Matilda. “I will wash my face and hands, and then do you lend me your cloak and your long veil. With them I can cover myself so that he will not be able to see what I look like.” To this the housekeeper agreed, as she could think of no better plan. Matilda took the cloak and veil and hastened away with them to her own room. There she combed her hair and washed off the stain, and then she put on her golden dress and her jewels, which she had kept hidden away since the night of the ball. When she was dressed, she covered herself carefully with the cloak and veil, so that even the housekeeper’s prying eyes could not catch a glint of the finery beneath. So disguised, Matilda went up to Count Conrad’s room and stood modestly just inside the doorway. The count had been waiting for her impatiently, and as soon as she entered, he said, “Was it you who made the broth the housekeeper brought to me?” “It was I,” answered Matilda. “And who was it who put the ring in it?” “It was I.” “Then tell me,” cried the count, “who gave you the ring. How came you by it?” “It was you yourself who gave me the ring, and it was you who placed it on my finger,” said Matilda. With these words she put aside the veil and dropped the cloak from her shoulders. There she stood before him, blushing, and filling all the room with the light of her beauty. The count was transported with joy. “You have come!” he cried, “and you have come at the time when I most despaired of finding you. Now we will be married, and never again shall you leave me.” At these words Matilda grew very sad. “Alas, that may not be,” said she. “Have you forgotten that I am only your kitchen-maid?” But the count loved her too dearly to care for that. “You will be my wife,” he said, “and then who will dare to remember what you were before?” “Yes, but there is another reason why we can never, never marry,” sighed Matilda. “You will agree with me as to that when I tell you that my father was your father’s bitterest enemy.” “Who was your father?” asked the count, wondering. Matilda then related to him her whole story, who her father was, how her mother had died while she was still a child, and about her stepmother and her nixie godmother. She also told him of how she had chanced to come to his castle and take service there. The count listened to all she had to say, and when she had come to an end, he took her in his arms and embraced her tenderly. “I care not who you are,” he said, “nor whence you come. I know only that I love you, and that you and you alone shall be my bride.”